


The Making of a Legend

by orphan_account



Series: Through all of Time [4]
Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-23
Updated: 2011-10-23
Packaged: 2017-10-24 21:49:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/268249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which we take James and Robert back to the 12th Century - the Crusades!</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Making of a Legend

The barons of England were in a ticklish situation, Robert, Earl of Lewes reflected as he strode down the halls to the audience chamber. He was a stocky man of Norman descent, dark haired and plain-speaking, more given to war than diplomacy.

 

At the time of the Third Crusade in 1192, England was a very unsafe place to be. People had been very surprised when the Pope had granted the Holy Cross to King Richard to go on Crusade to the Holy Land, especially as he was commonly known as the biggest bum-bandit in the realm, Robert chuckled to himself. Rumour had it that he’d sodomised the King of France in his youth, which was going some. But off he’d gone, ruining the country and hoping perhaps to gain pardon for his accumulated sins. Fat chance, he mused, given Mother Church’s public stance on homosexuality.

 

His absence, of course, gave his brother King John a much-desired opportunity to grab the throne and relieve Richard of ruling a land in which he wasn’t particularly interested anyway.

 

Having to change sides every five minutes made a man nervous. Had he, at any time, said anything against King John? He sincerely hoped not, although it had been politic to be King Richard’s man up til recently … but not in the Biblical sense.

 

Next to King John, on the dais at the end of the chamber were seated the two Queens, Berengaria, Richard’s wife, who it was rumoured had seen him just once at their wedding in Cyprus and the Queen Mother, Eleanor of Aquitaine. Looking at her, Robert could well believe the stories of her great beauty in her youth, her court of troubadours, dedicated to the art of Courtly Love in her homeland in South West France.

 

He made a low bow to the assembled royalty and noticed that next to Queen Eleanor was a minstrel in her personal livery, an exceptionally tall man with very fair hair, his lute draped casually across his shoulders and a fine velvet cloak hanging to his knees.

 

King John looked up from the vellum he was studying and said

 

“Ah, Lord Robert – welcome. My mother has a particular service to demand of you, I am sure you will be only too honoured to oblige.”

 

“My heart’s desire, Sire,” Robert murmured. Oh bugger! Eleanor favoured Richard and he had somehow got marked down as being on the wrong side for the man who was king at the moment.

 

Queen Eleanor rose gracefully to her feet, belying her age and walked towards him, her heavy brocade skirts swishing with each pace. She held out a thin hand, mottled with age spots and heavy with cabochon rings.

 

“My dear Lord Robert,” she said as he bowed over her hand to kiss it. “I know in what esteem you hold our King, our Richard. So I am sure you are exactly the man to accomplish this task for me. Blondel, come here, my pretty.” The minstrel descended the dais and bowed to his Queen, elegantly and with a style that raised Robert’s eyebrows. So this was one of her troubadours. The Queen continued

 

“This is Blondel, Richard’s favourite …” the pause was too long to be anything but deliberate. “Richard’s favourite musician, I should say. He is as anxious as I am to find his Lord’s whereabouts. You will have heard, Lord Robert that my son is held prisoner, captured on his way back from the siege of Acre?”

 

“Most unfortunate, Lady,” Robert said, finding himself between two kings and not liking it one bit.

 

“Blondel has volunteered to go and find his master. He cannot, of course, go alone and my other son suggested that you would be an ideal accompagnator – you have a reputation as an excellent horseman, a skilled fighter and with some brains between your ears.”

 

“I am most honoured, Lady.” He was also immensely pissed off. Traipsing around Europe as a wet-nurse to a musician wasn’t his idea of a good way to spend a few months, but it was better than finding himself in the Tower on a charge of treason.

 

“My informants are almost certain that Richard was held in Austria but has been handed onto the German Emperor. If you will guide him, Blondel will sing outside any castle depending directly on Henry, if Richard is inside, he will recognise the song, sing the next verse and, knowing then where he is, you will be able to return so that we can arrange a ransom and his release.” She made it sound so easy – he knew it wouldn’t be.

 

Making their bows and backing out of the chamber before turning to walk away, Robert sized up the young man next to him. He’d never seen anyone so tall before and his mannerisms set the older man’s teeth on edge. Robert headed for the abbey where the monks kept the maps they would need to consult before setting out. As they walked he said

 

“Blondel? Is that your real name then lad?” A shake of the head and a very long thin finger pointed to the hair. His accent was pure troubadour, exaggerated Langue d’Oc, accompanied by waves and gestures.

 

“No, Melaw –I am Jaques d’Affroué, Blondel is my professional name.”

 

“Well you can stop all that fancy waggling about for a start when there’s just you and me. You’ll be disguised as my servant, not a bloody maid.”

 

“As Melaw please.” The delicate nostrils pinched in a show of displeasure and the hands were dropped. Obviously unused to stillness, the minstrel stuck his thumbs in his belt and tried to walk more like Lord Robert, although he still appeared to be partly dancing;

 

“And it’s “My Lord”, not Melaw … don’t you speak anything but Oc?”

 

The musician sighed and turned to face the nobleman. His accent changed to pure Cheapside

 

“Course I bleedin’ do, Sir Robert, me dad’s a tanner, but d’ye fink I’d get anywhere gobbing off like this?”

 

Robert stopped in his tracks and doubled up laughing. He was a simple man and he loved a joke. The transformation from elegant troubadour to tanner’s son was truly comical.

 

“So I suppose the name…?” He asked, wiping his eyes.

 

“Adapted – honest old English name – Hathaway but that’s not good enough for the Pladgies.” He could have been arrested just for saying the insulting diminutive of the royal family name of Plantagenet. That showed an enormous amount of trust. It also showed the great resentment that still existed between the peasants of Saxon origin and their French-born rulers.

 

“Well you might be better using you dad’s vernacular once we are out of here, Son,” Robert advised him as they continued walking to the chapter house. He’d changed his mind about this young man – he obviously had a bloody good head on his shoulders to get out of a tanner’s hovel in Cheapside and pass himself off as a troubadour. Brainy bugger, he thought – this trip might not be so bad after all.

**********

The elderly monk that showed them to the Scriptorium was eager to please, especially when the minstrel exchanged a few sentences with him in Latin. Lord Robert stood with his mouth open – this lad was full of surprises.

They were shown the maps and the monk pointed with an ink-stained finger at the Emperor Henry’s castles, advising them that Trifels Castle was his principal fortress. He indicated their best routes on the pilgrimage roads where they would be able to travel in more safety.

“See here, my Lord, Metz, in France, if you draw a line straight east, the castle is there. You will be crossing the Rhine but not the Alps, God Bless you.”

 

After that it was a case of changing Blondel from a troubadour to a servant, knowing that his kind did not go on pilgrimage too often, the Church being very suspicious of their life style and their glorification of profane love.

 

“Even when we are composing ballads to a lady-love,” Blondel explained, “The principle is that a man will love a lady who is not his wife, from afar, worshipping her as his ideal … which of course usurps the Virgin’s role in the eyes of the Church. So we are idolaters... amongst other things!” He gave a cocky grin at Lord Robert who threw a bundle of clothes at him and told him to change.

 

Shaking his head and wondering what new kind of world he’d found himself inhabiting, Lord Robert sent a lackey to go and arrange horses for them from Queen Eleanor’s stable while he sat and pondered the story they would use as cover for this mission, which smacked too much of espionage for his tastes. He was a soldier, damn it, not a spy. If they were discovered, King Richard wouldn’t be the only prisoner languishing in Henry, fourth of that name, Emperor of Germany’s dungeons – a prospect that filled him with true dread.

 

It being only mid-morning, they decided to set off immediately and head for Dover where they could take a ship to France, another prospect that Lord Robert didn’t relish. They would find an inn to stay for the night and then look for a ship in the morning.

 

As they rode, Lord Robert explained their story to Blondel - travelling to places of pilgrimage so that he could pray for the soul of his dead wife. This would not be hard to remember for him. Jeanne had died in childbirth two years ago and the ache for her in his heart was ever-present.

 

In turn, Blondel told his story to his new travelling companion, making the tale amusing and interesting as only a troubadour could.

 

“My parents noticed that I was bright and, being the eldest of eight children they were naturally keen to get rid of another mouth to feed so I was given to God when I was six. I spent four years being a tiny monk and learning Latin. That was where I learned to sing … and was lucky not to be in Italy. With the voice I had then, I would have ended up a castrate!

 

One of the patrons of the monastery was a nobleman who took a …how shall I say this not to offend Melaw…took a great liking to me. So he removed me from the monastery as his … page.”

 

Lord Robert looked across, frowning at the young man.

 

“You mean he …?” The minstrel nodded, quite unperturbed.

 

“If you will, Lord, my introduction to courtly love was less than courtly and nothing to do with love.”

 

The Norman baron shook his head in bewilderment. This sort of thing must be more prevalent than he had thought. Blondel chuckled slightly at his expression and continued

 

“The next stage in the game of pass-the-parcel that has been my life, was Queen Eleanor, may she be blessed in Heaven, heard me sing when she was on a Royal progress around the country and demanded me as a gift from my master. She took me with her to Aquitaine where I was trained as a troubadour. An lern to spek comme Oc pooooor” He lapsed into the exaggerated, mannered French of the court.

 

“Unfortunately, I was then noticed by our beloved Monarch, King Richard who also decided that he would like me as his “pet” and so demanded me of his mother … and anything our Dickie wants, our Dickie gets, especially from his dear Mama.”

 

Twisting in the saddle and reining back to a halt, Robert glared at him.

 

“Are you saying that you were also the King’s …?”

 

“My lord finds this concept very difficult? My lord cannot find a word for it? Should I assist my lord?” The troubadour was speaking very correctly and laughing at him now so earning himself a side-swipe to the arm. “It is ‘catamite’ my lord, if your Lordship wishes to use the polite expression. Yes I was the King’s bum-chum, in the vernacular … but there – it’s better than a tanner’s hovel in Cheapside, mate.” The last was delivered in cocky, disrespectful London argot, glottal stops and dropped Ts and all.

 

Lord Robert sighed and wiped his face with his hand, then urged his horse forward again, shaking his head.

 

“And you can tell me all this with no trace of anger or resentment?”

 

“And why, My Lord? What life would I have had if I’d stayed with my parents? I am over 30 years old now. I would not have seen this age in Cheapside. So I have paid with my body to make a much more comfortable life for myself.… that makes me no worse than my sisters who are all harlots, but they earn less than me and will die from their trade.”

 

Outside of Dover, they found an inn so Lord Robert decided to stay for the night. Blondel eased himself down from the saddle, wincing as he tried to walk, admitting that he was unused to riding long distances.

 

Consequently, when they had eaten and Lord Robert had paid for them to have a room to themselves, rather than sleep in the communal bedroom with the other travellers and pilgrims, Blondel took a jar of ointment from his saddlebag and held it out to the nobleman.

 

“I hesitate to ask you, My Lord, but this is a salve the monks gave me. It is sovereign against riding sores but …” he gestured helplessly, indicating it would be impossible to apply by himself.

 

“You take some bloody liberties, you do, young ‘un,” grumbled the earl but took the pot from him. “Go on then, face down, on the bed… you’ll not find that too difficult, I’ll bet.” He ignored the young man’s hurt look and exposed the injured area, then drew in his breath sharply.

 

“What in Our Lady’s name have they done to you, lad?” His lower back and buttocks were covered in scars, marks of savage beatings that had healed but would never disappear. Blondel squinted over his shoulder with a twisted smile.

 

“As you are staring at my naked arse, Lord, could you find it in your heart to call me James? You obviously have no idea – some men take their pleasure from using me as a woman and others from taking their belt to me. Either way my pain is their pleasure – that is the price of my fine clothes and good eating.”

 

Lord Robert was not only rough and plain-speaking, he was also just and fair. His face burned with anger at the viciousness he was witnessing and he tried to be as gentle as possible in applying the salve to the raw, red abrasions that the long ride had caused to the troubadour.

 

When he had finished, Blondel, re-adjusted his breeches and shirt and executed a very low, courtly bow.

 

“I thank my noble Lord from the bottom of my heart … or the heart of my bottom in this case.”

 

Lord Robert let out a guffaw of laughter and slapped him on the back.

 

“You’ve got guts, lad, I’ll give you that.”

 

“I would offer my services to My Lord this night but I fear the equipment is not in good order …and that my offer would be refused.”

 

“You fear correctly …James. But you may sleep on the bed with me – because I want you fit to ride tomorrow and a night on the pallet by the door won’t do you any good.”

 

As they lay side by side on the lumpy mattress, Lord Robert turned to the troubadour and said

 

“There is just one thing that I do not understand, James. Why do you want to go and find King Richard when it will only mean more of this treatment?”

 

The minstrel gave a derisive snort and said “When Queen Eleanor has an idea, tells everyone the romantic story of the devoted servant and says that it will happen …would you refuse the Lady?”

 

“What would you prefer to do, James?”

 

The cockney accent came back, stronger and with a wistful note to it.

 

“Disappear, Lord, forget I was ever Blondel, undergo another transformation and have an ordinary life, but that would be a miracle.”

 

Lord Robert stared up at the beamed ceiling in the darkness and wrestled with his conscience. Finally he took a deep breath and said

 

“Ah sod it. I’ve had enough of court life anyway. Disappear you shall, James. I’ll leave it long enough to send word to the Queen that you were killed in an ambush by robbers and you can go free. Shave your head and change your clothes, talk like your dad … you’ll be fine.”

 

The long arms snaked around his chest and he felt the minstrel’s shoulders shaken with sobs.

 

“Can I stay with you, My Lord? Please don’t send me away. You are the only one who ever showed me kindness and wanted nothing back.”

 

Lord Robert thought for a moment and then sighed again

 

“Monk, you said – and you remember your Latin. You’ll come and be tutor to my children …but you’ll have to be dressed in a habit and we’ll call you Brother James. Now shut up and go to sleep.”

 

For the first time in his life, Blondel lay with a man who didn’t want his body and who only held him close to stop him weeping with gratitude.

 

And so was born, my friends, the totally fictitious legend of the devoted minstrel Blondel wandering through Europe to rescue his master. It didn’t happen.


End file.
